


Acceptance

by GalekhXigisi



Series: Menstrual fics [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullying, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Coming Out, Crying, Gender Dysphoria, Menstruation, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier is Adopted, Trans Male Richie Tozier, Trans Richie Tozier, deadass, it is what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:57:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: Another short one-shot turned full shotPlease leave comments! I take constructive criticism!Please join my Discord server!https://discord.gg/eGkwayy





	Acceptance

Richie didn’t initially plan on standing in the bathroom with only the two candles he had lit in the sink there to illuminate the room. He had just wanted a shower, really, but showers meant a million different things for him. It meant keeping the lights out and mapping out where everything was before he got in because his mom had a habit of moving everything every single time she used it. She always insists he keep one candle lit as a  _ just in case _ sort of thing. He always despised the candle, but his mom praised him every single time he did, so he started to grit his teeth and bare it. The small  _ thank yous _ and  _ I’m so proud of yous _ that came from it always helped him relax, especially if it had been a rough day. Maggie was there with a smile, always supporting the boy. 

Now, he looks at his reflection with a frown. He looks so much  _ different _ from his parents. 

Maggie was a somewhat taller woman, though Richie was sure he’d surpass her sooner than she wanted him to. Her hair was had the tiniest bit of a wave to it, the brown strands a stark difference to Richie’s black coils that settled around his gangly frame. She was flat-chested and Richie new after enough binding that only then did he look similar to her. She was a million ways different from him. 

His father was no better. The man was blonde, having short hair that never went past however long Bill’s was. Despite that, Richie knew it was straight as a line. There was no curl to those blonde locks, not in very least. His father had a round face and lower cheekbones than his too-pale son. Both his and his wife’s skin tones were tan, much tanner than their collective son. He had always seen the three in family photos and taken notice of every single error, including his father’s height, which was almost half a foot shorter than his wife’s own. 

He knew he wasn’t their biological child. Hell, Richie thinks the entire town knows that if the rumors Eddie’s mom constantly brought up were any sort of sample for him. She always had something to say, always had some form of comment, always had to get  _ something _ in. He knew that he wasn’t their own, wasn’t their  _ fucking kid _ like Eddie was Sonia’s or Bill and George were Zack and Sharon’s. He was the adopted kid who remembered when his father would drink himself into blacking out and bitching about his mother’s death because  _ you’re the little shit that fuckin’ caused it, _ all slurred out in Russian when he was young. Richie had grown out of the accent, thank  _ fuck, _ but it still came out when he was particularly stressed, which he had realized he was when he tried to flirt with himself in the mirror. Now, tears pooled in the sink. 

He didn’t know why he was stressed. Hell, there were a million different things always there to nestle their way into his mind. The kissing bridge still had his initials carved into it, not that Eddie would ever actually find out. That bridge was old as shit and Richie  _ knew _ there was another set of R+ E down there, as well as E + R just by it. He had gone and checked during one of his paranoid ADHD “activity cravings” at two in the morning on a Sunday night just three weeks ago. He didn’t remember them being there when he had carved his letters, but he could also barely see through angry, hurt tears. He absolutely  _ despised _ that fucking clown, doing it purely out of spite. So fucking  _ what _ if he had a million different secrets? He was the  _ comedian _ of the group. No one ever truly knew how the comedian felt, no matter what, and that’s how Richie intended to keep it. After the first time he tried to be serious and got laughed at, he had instantly stopped. 

Richie wipes his face, glaring at the mirror. He has things to do today. He had places to be, even if the day feels like absolute shit and he doesn’t have the energy nor motivation to keep slapping around jokes like he always does. He’s put up with shit before, he can do it again. This wasn’t  _ shit _ on Richie. He could pull bullshit all the time. He had stopped counting how many days he did it after he got to eighty-three in the span of a few months. Three, maybe four, he didn’t know anymore. He just knew that he fucking  _ despised this feeling. _

He was going to see the losers today, just like he did every fucking day. It was the same cycle. He didn’t mind his friends, don’t get him wrong! He fucking loved those shitheads! They were like a second family to him! However, today just didn’t feel like a good day. He felt so fucking  _ sick. _ When had his stomach churned into that angry mess it was now in? It couldn’t be his period, no, he hadn’t gotten one of those in two years, something that he knew wasn’t healthy since he hadn’t started on any testosterone, but neither of his parents seemed to be in any hurry to do anything about that, nor was he. He liked the lack of a monthly, liked that he didn’t have to sit through a week of jittering pain that left in immobile for once a month now. 

He gets dressed in the dark, knowing his room inside and out. His parents weren’t home, so the only noises were the sounds of his clothes and the radio Richie had turned on at some point. He knows every single movement, knows how tight to wrap the bindings around his chest so that he could still somewhat breathe, even if it was a bit restricted. He could run fast and long enough to get away from the broken Bowers Gang, and that was what mattered. Sure, his parents somewhat despised the method, but it fucking  _ worked, _ didn’t it? He had only broken a rib once, and it wasn’t even his fault! It was because of Bowers and his shithead clan! 

The day churns unhappily. Richie could feel a familiar swell in his abdomen, but that swell came monthly and never actually took hold for longer than a week. It was just a passive feeling. He had learned to ignore it, knowing that it was probably something connected to the ghostly lack of a menstrual cycle, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He already knew that if he were to die, he were to die, no questions asked. There was a somber acceptance he never seemed to get anyone to genuinely understand. He had given up on trying to get them to understand. Instead, he just joked around like he didn’t feel like shit and feel like throwing himself over the next bridge he had the opportunity to. 

The day seems a lot more relaxed than it had been many of the other times. They weren’t going to the quarry and instead settled on the new pile of comics Richie and Beverly had stolen the day before. They were just reading them, relaxed around each other, lulling the day on without complaint. Richie, though, couldn’t shake that uncomfortable ache that surged up his back and made him feel a million times worse. He was sure to piss off Eddie, to keep everyone on their toes, to sit in the hammock with Eddie and almost push the boy out of it twelve different times without actually doing so, but none of the distractions could stick long enough for him to forget before a sudden ache hit him and he’d stutter with a word or freeze up for a second that was only  _ just _ noticeable. He knows that he doesn’t have any sort of good luck when Eddie asks about it. 

“Why the fuck are you hurt,” Eddie asks so suddenly that Richie almost falls out of the hammock. His stomach flips and he just barely avoids vomiting then and there. “You’ve been, like, flinching at everything. Did you break another fuckin’ rib.” 

“Shut up, mama’s boy,” Richie chirps in reply, “I’m fine.” 

“You are  _ not,” _ Eddie insists, feet in the other’s face. “You’re not  _ this _ weird on a daily basis.” 

“Maybe you don’t know me that well, then.” 

Stanley scoffs. “No one knows you better than we do, Rich,” he retorts. 

That was true…  _ ish… _ Only Stan knew about the bindings on his chest. He didn’t know about the  _ R + E _ carved on the kissing bridge. He didn’t know about the boy Richie had been macking on just a couple months ago in the school bathroom that he absolutely  _ refused _ to tell anyone about because _ really, Dave, of all people? _ He got it, his taste in men wasn’t the best, especially when Dave was the tall equivalent of Eddie, but the too typical  _ white boy _ version that reminded Richie of his dad and ended up making him push the other boy away with mixed feelings. Thank  _ God _ he had taken it well. He accepted the breakup without a single hitch. 

They didn’t know about the morning Richie stared in the mirror for half an hour and just letting the tears splash into the sink, giving his face some form of color that he always lacked. It made him look like he wasn’t a complete ghost. The didn’t know about the  _ at least _ eighty-three days he had felt so crooked but still managed to get a laugh out of the group. 

“Whatever,” Richie mumbles as he turns the page. He felt like he was deflating, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. However, he  _ did _ very much care when he felt a feeling he hadn’t felt in  _ years _ now. It made him bolt up, standing up so quickly that Eddie fell to the ground, the comics he had in his lap falling on top of him. “I have to go,” he suddenly supplies, handing the comic to Eddie before the others could say anything. 

A hand was gently wrapped around his wrist by the time he got to the ladder. Rich knew who it was. He  _ always _ knew who it was. Only two people in the group had a genuinely warm touch constantly, and that was Ben and Bill. Bill’s hand was smaller, and was notably the one around his wrist right now, fingers gentle and not fully clasped, giving Richie enough freedom to pull away if he chose to. 

“R - Richie,” he tries, word coming out somewhat weak. Richie was sure he was shaking. The last time he had been shaking so bad was when he was breaking down sobbing as he confessed to Wentworth and Maggie that he was a boy, not a girl. He was just a child then. They moved to Derry just after. “What’s wro - wrong - g?’ 

The tears splatter on the dirt ground, but Richie knows he doesn’t have time to explain. By the time he got home, there would be blood on his shorts and he’d have to explain everything to his mom. He doesn’t trust his voice. He knows what’ll come out will have that thick accent that he worked so hard to discard over the years. He knew his mind would turn to the gutter and he would cry until he had no tears left, so he made his way out of there as quickly as he could, grabbing his bike and trekking home. He was careful as Hell to avoid actually sitting on the seat. Sitting meant that the mess would spread and he didn’t fucking need  _ that. _

Thankfully, Maggie wasn’t home when Richie made his way inside. The only other good news he had to report was that there wasn’t very much blood on his shorts, just enough that he could wash it out with cold water in the sink. That’s what he did, throwing the soaked clothes into the washer and changing. He wasn’t the tiniest bit surprised when a knock came at his door, nor when he opened it to reveal all of the Losers Club looking at him expectantly. Thankfully, he had stopped crying and managed to regulate his breathing. He invites them in without comment. There would be that accent, and he didn’t want that, not  _ now. _ He would probably start crying again. 

“Richie,” Ben attempts, voice soft as he sat down on the sofa, “what happened?” 

Mike nodded along, sitting beside Bill and Stan, both of which curled into it, practically holding Mike, the couch their own spot. Beverly took the arm of the chair and Eddie simply stood beside the couch, not minding that there was more than enough room for him. Instead, he just wanted to know what the fuck was happening with the boy in front of him. 

“Fuckers,” he grumbles, not missing his own fucking accent. He flinches at it. He sounds just like his  _ father. _ “You guys can’t leave shit alone, can you?’ 

“Nope,” they all mutually agree, passing around their own versions of the word. 

Richie knows that they can see that he changed his shorts. They can all see it and the fact is  _ there. _ They were probably a step away from asking if he shit himself, which Richie really just  _ did not fucking want. _ So, instead, he slowly pries his shirt off. There are scars beneath the fabric, scars that cover his entire body. There was a burn on his shoulder that made him usually end up wearing overshirts to cover it up. He knows they can see it now, as well as the pressed down chest. He looks over at the floor, focusing on a piece of fuzz that wasn’t there. They knew what the term transgender was. There was a girl in his seventh class who said she used to be a boy, and damn did she get shit about it. She said she was moving away by this Christmas. Honestly, he was happy for her to get the fuck out of this shitty town that does nothing more than kill its’ occupants. He just hopes she can make it until then. 

“I don’t understand,” Mike supplies, a brow raised, his confusion clear. 

Richie untucks the strand on the bandages, letting the long strip of fabric fall to reveal what was underneath. Tears slid down his face much faster than he wanted them to, especially at the gentle gasps of reactions. He tries not to focus on who did them, squeezing his eyes shut and sniffling as he puts his shirt back on and picks up the bindings, moving to put it on his bed. He doesn’t feel like fighting it anymore. He just wants to collapse and sob until he has nothing left or he ends up passing out. 

However, Stan gently knocks on his door, not letting the teenager stand there for more than a moment. He slowly starts with, “Why… Did you run, anyway? No offense, but it can’t  _ just _ be this.” 

Richie shakes his head, wiping his face. He scoffs. “I wish,” he mumbles, “but the red sea parted and that mother fucker said make way, fuck your crops, I’m  _ coming _ whether you want me to or not.” 

“Really? It’s been... What? Two years?” Stan moves closer, offering a hand out to guide Richie back to the group, a silent way to tell him that things were okay. “Dude, are you doing okay, seriously?”

Richie laughs, something so bitter and painful.  _ “No,” _ he cackles, “No, Stan, I’m fucking  _ not. _ I just want to lay in bed and let the world retake me.” 

Stan shakes his head, slow and calm. “Come on, Richie. Let’s go sit with the others, okay They’re all okay with it.” 

Richie gives a weak hum, nodding slowly as he walks with the other, his arms folded over his chest as he hunches somewhat. It was something he always did out of horrid habits, one of the many that invaded his life. He wanted nothing more than to collapse on the ground and sob his heart out. Richie was so  _ tired. _ He knows Stanley knows that, his touch gentle and caring, half-heartedly guiding him to the couch with a hand warily pressed to the small of his back. It’s an action that stan didn’t normally do, far too aware of the dent in Richie’s sides that the other boys lacked. Now, it’s grounding and comforts Richie a million times more than he wants to admit. 

Richie Tozier was normally a daredevil, though, if he were being honest. He usually would do anything in his power that meant he would get harmed in some way, shape, or form. He would toss insults at the broken up Bowers gang that was now a million times easier to agitate when Richie would pry  _ where are you girls going without your mama? _ That usually ended up with a punishment seven times harsher than what Henry himself had done to Richie, though that Banana Heeled fool didn’t have shit on Richie. He wasn’t that crybaby he used to be. He was Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier. He was the one boy in school that always did dumb shit. 

Now, though, he feels like he’s that little boy who was desperately sobbing at an orphanage, pleading with the social worker. He didn’t want to leave the home, but there were scars on him from broken glasses and slaps that were so damn hard that they ended up tearing his skin. He feels so horribly bad, tears pooling and dropping on his lap as Stan sits beside him, letting the other curl around him. Stanley just rests his arms around him, letting the soft cries happen. 

“You’re still Richie,” Mike comforts, words quiet. “You’re our best friend. We love you, Rich, really.” 

The others seem to nod along. The acceptance only makes him cry harder, though he has no idea  _ why. _ This was a  _ good _ thing? Why was he so upset? 

No matter what, his friends hold him tight, letting him bawl his eyes out, comforted by their presences and soft reassurances. 

**Author's Note:**

> Another short one-shot turned full shot 
> 
> Please leave comments! I take constructive criticism!
> 
> Please join my Discord server!  
https://discord.gg/eGkwayy


End file.
